Apex
by scrub456
Summary: *Apex - in cycling, the sharpest part of a turn* Sherlock chases a criminal on foot. He gets a little help from an intriguing bicycle messenger. Alternate first meeting.


"He's running." Tossing his suit coat at the first warm body to his right, Sherlock dove out from the hiding spot behind the patch of shrubbery in pursuit of the suspect.

"Damn it, Sherlock. Stop!" D.I. Lestrade shouted after the consulting detective. "Dimmock!" Shouting unnecessarily into his radio, Lestrade threw the suit coat, which was most definitely more expensive than every article of clothing he was wearing at the moment, on the ground and kicked it for good measure. "Dimmock, get your team in there and grab Peters. Something spooked McGuthrie. You!" He turned on the nearest constable, he was young, fresh-faced, new to the force. Bloody hell, this was not going to end well. "Follow him."

"Sir?" The young constable, Lestrade thought he was called Erickson, swallowed hard.

With a broad sweeping motion, Lestrade pointed in the direction the suspect, McGuthrie, and Sherlock had run. "Holmes. Follow him. Radio in when you see where he went. We'll be right behind." Having picked up Sherlock's jacket, Lestrade shook it once and sprinted toward his car. "Donovan! Car!" He turned back to Erickson. "You better run, kid. You'll lose him!"

Sherlock had balked when Lestrade first called him to the murder scene. "Barely a two. You're wasting my time and yours."

"There's been a murder. I doubt the victim thinks we're wasting our time."

"I doubt the victim is thinking at all. She was murdered, Graham, Do try to keep up."

Once McGuthrie had been identified on a security feed across the street from the scene, all the evidence had pointed neatly to him. Just as Lestrade thought for certain the case was closed, Sherlock swooped back in (there was no other word for it, especially when he whipped the Belstaff around. Flashing his plumage like a bloody bird of prey) and had proved that McGuthrie was only the hired gun. Their victim was just one in a long line of unsolved cases that were never connected, because up until two days ago McGuthrie hadn't left any kind of evidence trail behind.

And that was the reason Sherlock came back to the case. It had nothing to do with the victim, though Sherlock was the one who had made the connection to Peters - he was new money about to marry up, and she was a youthful indiscretion. Sherlock didn't care about the unsolved ones (by making the connection to McGuthrie, he'd already done the hard part), nor did he care about the fact that Peters was interested in hiring McGuthrie to see to his future mother-in-law (Peters had agreed to pose as a client to lure out McGuthrie in exchange for leniency). No, Sherlock wanted to know what had caused McGuthrie to get sloppy.

Lestrade suspected Sherlock had already put it together. He also knew Sherlock well enough to know he wasn't going to share anything until he could do so in a truly sensational fashion.

"Sally you drive." He tossed the keys to Donovan, tossed Sherlock's jacket to the back seat, and called for more backup. "Left! They went left!"

* * *

Sherlock slammed his palm down on the bonnet of the black cab as it screeched to a halt. He didn't even dignify the swearing driver with a glance.

Increasing his pace, Sherlock measured his respirations. McGuthrie was approximately 77.823 metres ahead of him, but he was clearly unaccustomed to this level of exertion, and losing ground quickly. Sherlock would overtake him long before he found himself too overly taxed.

Judging by the uncertain footfalls of the young constable making an effort, and failing, to keep up with him from behind, and the fact that midday traffic would in no way aid in Lestrade's approach by car, it was a good thing Sherlock would not get winded easily.

He was going to have to subdue McGuthrie on his own. His eyes flashed with glee and he suppressed a grin as he ran a little harder.

Sherlock had closed the distance between them to just 21.73 metres when McGuthrie shoved a lady pushing a pram into his path. He sidestepped them easily, but turned his ankle on an uneven spot in the sidewalk. He limped a few steps but gritted his teeth and ran through the pain. He spotted a constable ahead of them and shouted out for him to stop McGuthrie. The constable glanced around in confusion, just in time to be knocked to the ground by the criminal.

"Incompetent!" Sherlock shouted at the officer as he ran past him. With a growl he kept on, and he could tell McGuthrie was slowing.

The gap between them had narrowed to just 11.942 metres, and Sherlock was calculating at what angle he'd have to hit the man to bring him down with one try if he launched himself forward, when he spotted it.

A flash of neon green on the far side of the road. It kept pace with him for a moment, then lurched ahead and was just as quickly weaving across traffic, leaving a few crunched fenders, a cacophony of squealing tyres and blaring horns, and more than a few swearing drivers in its wake.

Not it. His. Sherlock squinted against the sunlight. A man on a bicycle was dodging nimbly, if quite dangerously, through traffic at such an angle that it was possible he'd intercept McGuthrie before Sherlock could catch him.

No... it wasn't just a possibility. Sherlock slowed just a bit, to the great relief of his ankle, so he could see what the man on the bicycle was getting ready to do.

Sherlock was not interested in, nor did he care to learn of, the finer points of cycling. He'd learned to ride when he was a child, but hadn't had the need or the desire to pursue the activity as an adult. He had deleted the Tour de France from his hard drive, had never heard of extreme cycling, and knew very little of cycling competitively. So when the man on the bicycle, who was moving at a rapid clip, hopped his bicycle over the kerb, in awe, Sherlock skidded to a halt.

He watched in stunned silence as the cyclist, demonstrating impressive control, leapt from the bicycle just as it landed. He shoved it away from himself and dove into McGuthrie, sending them both crashing to the ground.

"Whoa." Erickson huffed as he finally caught up. He bent over and braced his hands on his knees to catch his breath. "Did you see that?" Sherlock scoffed.

"That was incredibly stupid." Sherlock held out his hand to the cyclist. "This man is very dangerous."

"What he do? Mugging?" The man ignored Sherlock's proffered hand, released the clasp on his helmet strap and dropped it beside him. He pushed himself up into a crouch and and appeared to be assessing McGuthrie.

Sherlock hummed and clasped his hands behind his back as he observed. Greying blond hair, military cut and style. The way the man's eyes and hands moved over the now groaning criminal indicated someone with medical experience. He favored his left arm. Possible injury sustained in the collision with McGuthrie, but he hadn't tackled him on that side. Right trouser leg was rolled up to avoid being caught in the chain, he was wearing the green jersey with a delivery company logo on it, and had a messenger bag slung across his back.

"Murder for hire, actually." Sherlock offered casually.

The cyclist halted his assessment and glanced up at Sherlock. "Murder for hire? That would explain..." He pulled the pistol from where it was tucked under the criminal's shirt and into his waistband. He checked the safety, deftly removed the clip, and held it out to Sherlock. With a wave of his hand, Sherlock deferred the handling of the weapon to Erickson. The other constable had recovered himself and was handcuffing McGuthrie.

Lestrade, having left Donovan behind in traffic, jogged up next to Sherlock. "Well... figure it out? Why'd he run? Why the erratic behavior?"

"He ran because he recognized Peters, and he never works for the same client twice, as to the erratic behavior, I haven't been able to..." He motioned to McGuthrie who was only just regaining consciousness with another groan.

"Concussion." The cyclist stood then. He winced as he examined the road rash on his own right forearm. "He had a concussion. Someone must've fought back, see where he was hit?" He pointed to a large knot on McGuthrie's head. "Pretty severe, would definitely cause erratic behavior."

"Who's this?" Lestrade looked between Sherlock and the other man.

"John Watson." He held out his hand to Lestrade.

"Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade." He shook John's hand then put his hands on his hips. "How'd you know..."

Sherlock huffed in disdain. "He obviously a doctor, Lestrade." Sherlock turned his laser focus on John, who defiantly stood at attention under the scrutiny. Hmm. Most people tried to shrink away. Fascinating. "The real question is, Afghanistan or Iraq?"

"I'm sorry?" John blinked in surprise, but didn't turn his gaze away.

"Your military service? It's evident from your haircut and the way you efficiently, without hesitation, disarmed our suspect. I know you're a doctor because your first concern was assessing the damage. So army doctor, invalided home. Shoulder injury. Which was it - Afghanistan or Iraq?"

John shook his head and huffed a laugh. "Afghanistan. Damn. That was brilliant."

"You think so?" Sherlock narrowed his eyes suspiciously. He shoved his hands in his pockets because he suddenly had no idea what to do with them. With himself. He continued staring at John.

"Yeah. Yeah, of course." John smiled a lopsided smile at him.

Taken aback, Sherlock cleared his throat. "Well, then... you hate your job because you find most people insufferable, but you find riding through London traffic thrilling, so you plan to continue until the weather gets cold. The bicycle wasn't originally yours. An expensive model, but old, you got it from a relative... your brother likely. You don't plan on returning it because..." He pointed at the bent wheel and broken chain. John groaned, but then turned back to Sherlock. "Why is a doctor working for a delivery company?"

John held up his left hand. "No one's hiring a surgeon with nerve damage in his dominant arm and who suffers from PTSD."

Sherlock nodded and observed John thoughtfully. "Why bicycle?"

"Sherlock Holmes can't figure it out?" John smirked, and Sherlock looked stunned. "I read the papers," John winked. "And I ride because my therapist tried to tell me a pain I had in my leg was psychosomatic, and would never go away. Well, to hell with that. I borrowed the bicycle from Harry, my sister, and set out to prove everyone wrong. Besides it was better than rotting in my godawful bedsit."

"Damn. A sister." Sherlock shook his head and smiled at John. "Always something."

Lestrade cleared his throat. "Sorry to interrupt this... moment, or whatever the hell is happening, but I need statements. I'm going to need you to come with me."

John sighed. "Shite. Yeah, I need to call work. Guess I'm done for the day anyway." He glanced at his broken bicycle and sighed again. "And I was supposed to meet with a guy about a flat later. Can I..."

"Go ahead," Lestrade nodded and turned to Sherlock. "Kind of an arse, yeah?"

Sherlock scowled. "On the contrary." He watched John digging through his messenger bag. "He's the most interesting person I've ever..."

"Damn!" John dropped his mobile back into his bag. "It's broken. Can I use the phone when we get there?"

"Absolu..."

"Here. Use mine." Sherlock hesitantly held out his mobile and his voice wavered. Lestrade gawked.

"Thanks, mate." John smiled the most genuine smile Sherlock had ever seen. He took the phone and started dialing a number. "Oi. Wait... You know Mike?" John had started entering a number and the contact popped right up.

"Stamford? Yes." Sherlock took a step toward John. "Do you?"

"From uni." John squinted up at Sherlock. "That's who I was going to meet for coffee later. Said he knows someone looking for a flatmate."

Sherlock's cheeks flushed and he blinked rapidly. "My exact words to Mike, just yesterday, were, 'No one in their right mind would want to be my flatmate.'"

John smiled again.

"Oh bloody hell." Lestrade threw his hands in the air. "Sherlock, you two get a cab or something. My office, immediately." He stormed off, only to return a moment later and tossed Sherlock's jacket to him.

"So, Mike tells me you've an affordable place in central London?" John collected his helmet and frowned down at his bicycle.

"Leave it."

"I'm sorry?"

"Quit this job you hate, and work with me. I... need an... an assistant."

"I've seen you in the papers, some sort of private investigator? Explain exactly what it is you do." John was already pushing his bicycle up to lean it against a rubbish bin.

"Consulting detective. Only one in the world. I observe what most people overlook. When the police are out of their element, which is usually, they call me, and I do..." He motioned to where John had tackled McGuthrie. "This. I do this. And I would like to... with you..." He pointed again.

"So, you need someone to run after you and tackle criminals?" John laughed.

"No. I need an assistant." Sherlock looked at him expectantly. "You're more than qualified. And I can pay you. Also, when you move into the flat..."

"You're assuming I'm interested." John cocked an eyebrow.

Sherlock paused and studied John for a moment. "No. I'm not." He winked and turned abruptly to hail a cab. "I never assume."


End file.
